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As soon as the nurse plucks that red, screaming infant from his mother’s womb and place him/her in your arms you become a Dad. It’s an immediate association. You go from the awkward guy in scrubs to a father instantaneously. With a sudden awareness that it is now your responsibility of raising this little, screaming thing, who some would say, look just like you. If you were screaming at the top of your lungs like your life depended on it. For boob-food.
And so it continues. You take him home and try to make sure that he is fed, burped, dry, clean, warm or whatever other thing that might cause that dead-raising-bawl. The howling noise that make all men nervous. Then his tooth comes out and besides all the photo’s, you try to handle all the slobbering and crying and excessive shitting with an endless amount of advise from random strangers on how teething should actually be managed. Ranging from holding the kid upside down to feeding them brandy. (Of which you will try every single on out of pure desperation). Then…
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